Tace tried to close her eyes.

She’d grown quite accustomed to the sounds within the small shack at night, which were far more louder within the daytime. She hadn’t told the giant about the large crack that rested in the middle of the door like a twisted road, gnarled and curled at the edges. He’d grumble about it quite a bit, but Tace was used to his moods. They went to the mountains less. Many days he spent coughing a storm, making strange etchings upon a faded piece of paper, ink staining his gnarled fingers. Smoke rose from his pipe. He still continued to chop wood to keep the fire going, although most of the time he would cough so violently it startled Tace. He’d give her one of his weary smiles, pat her on the head and tell her not to worry.

But she did.

The giant was fighting a bad cold, his nose quite stuffed up and red, but every night he’d tuck her in, before heading out into the pitch black night with his reliable axe and rifle he had purchased from a merchant when they had gone on one of their road trips. The previous week he had sharpened her good knife, the one that she had taken from the Guadana House of Mercy. Before he had given it to her, he had made her promise to only use it in an emergency, and she had sworn to do so. This night was no different like the others—she despised it whenever the sun went down because she knew that he would be gone, alone with the shadows.

The wind caused the branches to bang against the window. Despite the creaking of the wooden walls and the floor, the child could make out crickets chirping on the porch. She’d caught one before, and the giant had explained to her that they produced that noise with their wings—an instrument attached to their body. That evening, they had collected fireflies together too, before releasing them into the warm evening air. Supper was cornbread and jerky; the saltiness was still present on the back of her tongue.

It was eerily quiet. The giant’s tools were set on the table—nearly arranged and prepared for the next day. Her sharpened knife and pickaxe laid near the corner, the stone blade gleaming at her in the dark shack.

Slowly, the fireplace was beginning to die, coals glowing like orange and red embers. The young girl shivered. She knew that there was more wood on the porch, but didn’t dare think of opening the door, not for a minute—not for a second, especially after the other day. Her fingers tightly clutched the worn cornhusk doll, and she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that when morning arrived when she opened them. She drew the quilt above her head, her heart beating. She did not want to face the darkness outside, although sweat had begun to gather on her forehead and neck. Her breaths were shallow and quick.

There was a faint thump.

Tace turned to the right side of the bed—the quilt becoming entangled around her legs. Her head sank further into the worn pillow, and she turned to count to ten in her mind; a small trick that she had taught herself when she was afraid. After a few more silent moments, drowsiness began to win over. A gigantic yawn overtook her, and her eyelids began to droop. Just as she was beginning to doze off, the sound occurred again, this time, much louder. And heavier before, like someone had dropped a big rock. It came from the side of the cabin.

Tace blinked. The cabin was pitch black—she hadn’t noticed that the fire had gone out. She couldn’t even see any shadows, let alone her palm when she held it across her face. Once again, sleep had begun to overtake her when the strange noise occurred a third time. This time, it was directly on the porch. Tace did not move, just remained as still as she could. She threw the quilt over her head again, trying her best to fall asleep. She curled up in a ball.

Something fell on the floor, like a pebble.

With great agitation, Tace flung the quilt to the side, the sudden rush of cold air a great shock to her body. Carefully, she felt her way to the table in the dark room and lit a candle; the yellow glow suddenly illuminating the room. Rubbing her bleary eyes, she turned to face the door. She could feel the gust of wind collecting at the bottom, causing the hem of her nightgown to sway. Just as she took a step forward, a hard item suddenly dug into the sole of her left bare foot, causing her to wince in pain and nearly drop the candle. With a shaky hand, she bent down and picked it up.

It was a piece of licorice, wrapped in some sort of paper, with a strange name on it that she couldn’t read. Tace frowned, but before had the chance to further examine the candy, there was another small thumping sound. Another one, wrapped with a different colored—paper, rolled out from beneath the doorway. Tace slowly set down the candle on the table and knelt on the ground, turning her head sideways to best catch a glimpse of the shadow.

Chills ran down her spine. Two large dark brown eyes met hers—blacker than the night.

Tace quickly scooted backwards, clutching the leg of the table with her right hand. She wanted to get up and run, but couldn’t, due to her unable being to move her legs. It was as if someone had attached rocks to her feet. Then she pinched herself, dismayed at the sensation of pain shooting up her left hand. She had to be dreaming. This was no dream, although she wasn’t sure what it was. She didn’t care. All she wanted to do was to wake up. A faint ringing settled in her ears. The black eyes continued to observe her.

On one of their mining trips, the giant had told her that if she ever encountered a wild animal, such as a bear or coyote, to remain as still as possible. To give them a chance to get used to her presence, before then moving away slowly. Let them know who is in control, Bunny, he said. To not look it in the eyes, but to breathe as carefully as she could. She immediately tore her gaze away from the inky, swampy black pupils that were fixed upon her, which were expanding like ripples in the pond she used to skip rocks at near the orphanage.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Something scratched the roof.

Tace remained under the table. She longed for her doll, but did not dare step out, as the shape hovered over her bed. Something sticky and wet dripped on the ground.

A cold wind filled the cabin, causing the fireplace and candle to die out. In the sudden darkness in the room, she could make out a figure hanging upside down in the corner, just above the table, contorted and bent out of frame. She rubbed her eyes with both hands, keeping her eyes closed. Something was directly in front of her—-just inches away from her nose and face. She struggled to breathe.

The shadow slipped to the ground. Its feet were motionless against the surface, and it glided forward, almost like it was floating. Tace squeezed her eyes tighter, much tighter than before. Something cold and wet touched her left cheek; the smell of pine and moss and mud overpowered the shack.

A very raspy, wet whisper, barely audible within the dark met her ears. She didn’t know what it said. She sensed a hand wrap around hers, cold and wet and slimy, the nails digging into her skin. Fighting back a scream, her eyes nearly fluttered open.

Tace yanked her palm away and scooted further below the table, hugging her knees while wanting to reach for her knife. The shadow remained still, and for a moment, she thought it could have been her imagination. She reached over, still keeping her eyes closed, and threw the pieces of candy into the fireplace, listening to them burn and dissolve into ash in the smoldering embers. A sudden wave of fatigue fell over her, and as she laid down on the ground, she felt Isabel being gently placed in her sweaty hands.

There was a faint sigh.

When she slowly sat up, the sun was streaming through the window, and she yawned and stretched with both hands. Birds loudly chirped and sang on the branches above. Realizing that she had spent all night lying on the dirt floor, she had begun to sit up when the door roughly swung open, causing a gust of cold air to fill the room. She quickly looked up.

The giant wearily stumbled through the threshold, leaves stuck in his dark hair. Bags rested under his swollen gray eyes, and he loudly sneezed before pressing a hand against the wall to support himself. Dirt streaked his coat, and he had hardly set down his rifle when Tace had flung herself into his arms. He chuckled to himself, scooping her up as he usually did every morning, attempting to get down on his knees but wincing in pain. He smelled like the pine trees and tobacco and gunpowder.

”Papa.”

The giant froze at the word that had escaped Tace’s mouth, the smile slowly fading from his own. He didn’t say anything. Tace held her breath for a moment, expecting him draw back in disgust, but he instead gently caressed her in his big arms. His large gray eyes became damp, and they stayed in that embrace. He swallowed hard, before burying his face on top of her curls—his arms wavered a bit. He drew in a shaky breath.

”Papa,” she quietly repeated, this time, it was a bit more timid than before. But she meant it with every fiber of her being. The deep heaviness that had settled upon her had dissolved. He no longer looked like a giant to her, and she waited for him to rebuke her, to not ever call him that, if she had directly ever addressed him as anything before.

He did not.

The child released him, her eyes beaming as she led him by the hand to the fireplace. The two silently sat side by side, and she was surprised to see him shivering. The only thing he said to her that day was to not get too close to him, as he did not want her to catch anything. He then mumbled something, and, still wrapped in his coat, wearily laid down sideways on his pallet, which was much too small for his frame, on the ground near the window. He was very still, and every moment, Tace would check on him to make sure that he was breathing. With all of her might, she yanked the quilt from her bed and dropped it upon him, then stepping back. But he did not move, already lost in a deep sleep. His swollen eyes were shut; muddy dark hair plastered to his pale face.

To Tace’s delight, he did not depart that evening, due to him sneezing uncontrollably and coughing. She continued to poke at the fire and add small pieces of wood to keep it going. As he loudly snored on his pallet on the ground, wrapped tightly in the quilt, his nose mostly blocked due to congestion, a rattling sound escaped from his chest due to the phlegm that had built up in his nose.

Tace poured out some milky tea in two mugs, just the way that he had showed her how, so he would have something to drink when he awoke. As she set down the busted kettle, she softly began to sing to herself a small nursery rhyme she had heard at the orphanage. She pushed the stool to the side. The air was unusually heavy, static, despite her father’s snores, which resembled thunder rolling across the sky.

”The itsy bitsy spider,

Went down the water sprout.

Down came the rain and

Washed the spider out.”

Tace faintly hummed the verse again, reaching for a steaming mug of tea. A soft whisper echoed in her ear, so close that it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand. She turned around again, but there was no one behind her, just the door.

Her father had stopped snoring.

outcamethesunand

dried

Up

all the rain.

Tace’s face became pale, and she jerked back when she noticed a large dead cricket floating upside down in the mug, its wings began to dissolve like ash. She accidentally knocked it over, causing tea to spill all over the table. A cold sweat overtook her as she studied the closed door. Something wet and thick had gathered at the bottom, like the dark black ink that stained her own father’s hands.

and the it

sy bitsy spider

went up the

water

Sprout

again

again.

At the corner of her eye, a shadow was visible on the table next to her pickaxe.